SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL. 



When in the hollow of His hand 



All calm doth lie the deep, 

 Alone and out of sight of land, 



Upon the wave I sleep; 

 Above, the sun resplendent shines ; 



Beneath, old ocean heaves ; 

 I feel alike the smile of heaven 



And some great heart that grieves, 



I drift afar by sun and star ; 



I care not where I be 

 So long as throbs the giant flood 



Of ocean under me. 

 The ancient sea my brother is 



And well I know his moods ; 

 For everywhere with him I fare 



Throughout his solitudes. 



I lay my heart unto his heart, 



I soothe him with my wing ; 

 I kiss the tide as I were bride. 



And to him low I sing. 

 He speaks to me of mystery, 



Of days when he was young, 

 Of sorrows old, of tales untold 



By any other tongue. 



I listen, yearn, and much I learn 



Of nations now no more, 

 Of wrecks that sleep down in the deep 



Or strew the rocky shore ; 

 Of how grim Time makes him to mar 



Whatever coast he laves. 

 Of how the sea he makes to be 



So full of nameless graves. 



Since goaded long by lashing winds, 



He rushes forth in ire, 

 And welds as one the ships of Clyde 



With those of crumbled Tyre ; 

 And swallows down the king and clown 



With equal appetite, 

 And hides them all, both great and small, 



In his wide tombs of night. 



Then screaming I above him fly 



And hasten where he roars, 

 Within my breast the same unrest 



As his proud bosom gores. 

 A thousand leagues I go ^yith him 



And glory in his power, 

 A thousand leagues I herald him 



Through many a sleepless hour. 



Then, calmer grown, we dream again, 



And in some distant zone 

 A little season are as one. 



Untroubled and alone. 

 For I am brother to the sea 



And where he goes go I, 

 And when at last my days are past. 



Within his breast I lie. 



And I shall ever haunt his paths 



About this aging earth. 

 And he to me, and I to him, 



Shall sing of woe and mirth 

 Until gray Time shall be no more, 



And every wave that weeps 

 Has learned to laugh and laughing, thrills 



The bosom of the deeps. 



— C. G. B. in "The Chicago Record." 



188 



